


Do Not Go Gentle

by stormproofmatchgirl



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Communication Failure, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Human Derek Hale, Hurt Derek, M/M, Pre-Slash, Protective Stiles, Stiles can be a jerk sometimes, but he knows it, derek breaks my heart, hospital waiting room drama, post 4.10, touching is a very big deal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-26
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-14 22:08:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2204847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormproofmatchgirl/pseuds/stormproofmatchgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek’s name cracked the third code, and now, what that means for his future (or lack of one) feels as real as the steering wheel beneath Stiles’ fingers. He has to take Derek to the ER, but there’s this small part of him that wants to just keep driving. Outrun whatever black cloud had been following Derek around since he was 16. Because as much as he rubs Stiles the wrong way, the guy deserves better. He deserves a little happiness. A life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started this after watching "Monstrous". It will no doubt be AU after any episodes beyond that point.
> 
> Posting in two parts. Second part should be up before 4.11 airs.

It’s kind of eerie how silent it gets when the fight is over. At least Stiles thinks it’s over. He steps slowly away from the huge Hummer Derek shoved him behind, and scans the basement garage for any sign of the Berzerker. Takes a deep breath once he’s sure the coast is clear.

Argent is kneeling down next to Derek, hand gripping Derek’s shoulder. Which is weird, seeing Argent with this paternalistic worried vibe going on. Stiles, for the life of him, can’t imagine why. Because first of all, since when does Chris Argent give a crap about Derek, and second of all, why should he even be worried? Whatever’s got Derek on his knees, he’ll get over it pretty quick. Always does.

“You’re not healing anymore?” Argent asks, like it actually makes some kind of sense to him. Derek shakes his head. 

Okay. So they knows something he doesn’t. Something about Derek. Something not good.

“Woah, hold on. What do you mean _not healing_?”

“Scott didn’t tell you?” Derek grunts, peering up at him with red-rimmed eyes. 

“No, Scott didn’t tell me. What didn’t he tell me?”

Argent shares a knowing look with Derek, who nods with a tightly clenched jaw, like he’s giving Argent permission to cut him open with a scalpel or something and Stiles almost doesn’t want to hear it now. He doesn’t want to have anything to do with that raw look on Derek’s face.

“Whatever Kate did to him in Mexico, it’s draining him of his abilities,” Argent says, taking Derek’s injured arm gingerly into his hands. Derek hisses in pain and Stiles finds himself dropping to the ground opposite Argent, gaping in morbid fascination at the dented looking limb. “This isn’t going to heal any time soon,” Argent says bluntly.

Now Stiles is rethinking what just happened here, because normally it would make perfect sense for Derek to jump head-first into a fight against a seven foot tall ogre on steroids, but this is different. Now it’s bordering on suicidal. “Jesus, Derek,” he says, trying not to be too harsh. “You shouldn’t be… I mean if you don’t have your wolfie powers is it really cool to be throwing yourself at Berzerkers?”

“Kicked its ass, didn’t I?”

“Actually, I think it just got bored and left,” Argent clarifies.

“Whoever kicked who’s ass is besides the point,” Stiles says. “Shouldn’t we be heading in the general direction of the hospital? Because that arm looks pretty fuckin’ broken.”

Derek stares up at Stiles like a deer in headlights, then pulls his arm away from Argent, and says, “No.” He scrambles backwards until he’s backed against the bumper of the Jeep, totally spooked. “I mean… I’ll be fine.”

“Uh, welcome to the real world, buddy,” Stiles says. “Where people get hurt and actually go to trained professionals to fix it.”

“It’s fine,” Derek says, and swallows hard, clearly having no luck convincing anyone it’s fine, including himself. “I’ll just… splint it or something.” 

“Stiles is right. You need to get that x-rayed.”

“Why?” Derek asks. Like a kid might ask why they can’t bring their dog to school, or why things that taste good would be bad for you. There’s this innocent sense of injustice, and it’s sad and ridiculous and gives Stiles a momentary urge to make him a cup of hot cocoa. _Momentarily._

“Because when a human breaks their arm it doesn’t magically heal on its own,” Argent says bitterly. “You could end up crippled, and then you’ll really know what useless feels like.”

“Jeez. Way to sugar coat it,” Stiles says. Because really, kinda brutal. But that’s Argent—all business.

Derek shakes his head and lets out a breathless, nervous laugh.

“Hey,” Argent says, forcing Derek to look at him head-on by grabbing the poor guy’s face between his hands. “Let Stiles take you to the goddamn emergency room, alright?”

“Me?” Stiles blurts out, because he was somehow imagining himself as a tag-along in this scenario, as opposed to the lead.

“I should be tracking that Berzerker right now. It could lead us to Kate. You can take care of him.”

And on that note, Argent just takes off. 

“What? Wait!” Stiles calls after him, but Argent’s not interested. He gives them some lame half-salute and disappears through the parking lot exit. “Oh… sure. Yeah. No problem.”

“Fuck this,” Derek says, and pushes off the Jeep using his good arm. He only manages a few steps, however, before his knees wobble and his eyes scrunch closed and Stiles finds himself grabbing Derek’s shoulders to keep him from face-planting. The guy’s a mess.

And somehow, it’s become Stiles’ job to do something about that. 

“Come on. It’s no big deal,” Stiles says as Derek steadies himself with the hood of the Jeep. “I broke my arm when I was seven jumping off the top of a jungle gym. I survived. Dad took me for ice cream after. You like ice cream?”

“I hate ice cream.”

There’s only one person in the world who Stiles could believe hates ice cream. And here he is. “Of course you do,” Stiles says, leading Derek towards the passenger side door. “Alright, buddy. In ya go.”

 

Stiles starts the ignition, and it hits him that this is actually happening. Derek is leaning his head back against the seat, cradling his messed up arm and staring out the window with a dazed expression on his face, like he’s somewhere really far away. And Stiles feels the magnitude of him being suddenly… breakable. They’re driving not to to the vet clinic where Deaton does his crazy druid shaman crap, but to the hospital—where you take normal people when they get hurt in totally normal ways. Where you take people who can’t heal themselves supernaturally. 

Derek’s name cracked the third code, and now, what that means for his future (or lack of one) feels as real as the steering wheel beneath Stiles’ fingers. He has to take Derek to the ER, but there’s this small part of him that wants to just keep driving. Outrun whatever black cloud had been following Derek around since he was 16. Because as much as he rubs Stiles the wrong way, the guy deserves better. He deserves a little happiness. A life. 

Not that Stiles would ever tell him that, of course. No reason he has to die too.

 

\--

 

Melissa isn’t working. Which means no e-z pass to the front of the line. Derek lurches over to a couple of empty seats in the far corner of the waiting room as soon as they walk in, and Stiles grabs a clipboard of paperwork from the nurse at the reception desk. He’s pretty sure Derek doesn’t even have a social security number, let alone health insurance, so filling that out should be interesting.

He’s informed there’s some kind of flu epidemic happening in Palo Alto and Beacon Hills is handling their overflow of patients. There are definitely more people here than usual—lots of sweaty-browed college kids and old folks—and Stiles catches the faint stench of puke coupled with what might be Vicks VapoRub. Well shit. They could be here a while.

He finds Derek in his little corner, seemingly focused on ignoring his surroundings as much as possible. 

“Hey. How you feelin’?” Stiles asks.

“Fine,” Derek breathes, his eyes glued to the ceiling.

Stiles grabs the seat next to him and starts filling in the patient info sheet. “So I’m not even gonna ask if you have insurance. How ‘bout an emergency contact?”

“Why can’t they just fucking fix it?”

“It’s cool. I’ll just put my—“ Stiles starts, but ends up staring at Derek’s hand wrapped around his wrist. Okay… maybe he has a better emergency contact?

“Just give it to me, Stiles,” Derek growls. “Get out of here.”

“What?” Stiles says, even though he gets what’s going on. Derek’s programming is kicking in. And it’s telling him he has to do this alone just like everything else because he’s a rock and an island and a stubborn, stubborn moron.

“Go home. I can take it from here.”

“Dude,” Stiles says, shaking his head, a little tired of Derek’s bullshit. “I don’t mind. I can stay.”

Derek releases Stiles’ wrist and his gaze falls to the floor. “Stiles, I don’t… I don’t need...”

“Yeah, I get it. But do you want?”

Derek doesn’t say anything.

“If you don’t want me here, I can call Scott or Lyd—“

“No,” Derek grunts, cradling his broken arm to his stomach. The sleeve of his grey shirt is rolled up, something Stiles watched Derek do slowly and meticulously on the drive over. The arm looks worse than before, swollen and pink with blotches of yellowing bruises. Derek shifts a little and flinches from the pain it results in.

“You shouldn’t have to do this by yourself, dude,” Stiles whispers.

“It’s no big deal.”

“But it kind of is. I mean… symbolically. I know Scott told you about your name cracking the third list ‘cause I’m the one who told him to tell you. And with everything that’s happening to you, I know what’s gotta be going through your head, man.”

“Do you, Stiles? Really?” Derek asks, side-eyeing him.

“You aren’t as mysterious as you’d like to think.”

Derek lets out a slow, pained breath that Stiles is quite familiar with. “Fine. Stay. Do whatever the hell you want.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

And that about covers everything they say to each other for the entire two hours they sit there waiting. Because after that it’s just awkward silence, Derek making strained faces trying to hold back whatever pain he’s in, and Stiles trying really, really hard not to watch him the whole time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is reluctant to distract himself too much from Derek. At this point, the guy is looking pretty haggard; his hair a mess from sporadic stress-pulling, his face pale, his eyes barely open, and his good hand gripping the arm of his chair like he’s afraid an 8.5 earthquake’s about to hit. Stiles hates sitting there next to him doing absolutely nothing, and he’s had a couple of moments where his hand hovered inches over Derek’s hunched back, but he chickened out both times, too scared of being shoved off. 
> 
> He’s not sure when being rejected by Derek became a thing he cared about, and it makes his stomach feel a little loopy. If he’s lucky, it’s just the flu.

Sitting across from them is a surfer guy with long blonde hair and a weird rash on half his face. In the next row over, an anxious mother is trying to calm a young girl who looks like she’s about to puke. Along with Stiles and Derek, they’re the only ones left in the waiting room’s butt-numbing plastic chairs. It’s 2 am, and in a few hours Stiles has a quiz on Death of a Salesman. And he’s only 15 pages in. Maybe he can borrow surfer guy’s big neon blue headphones and watch it on youtube on his phone. Stiles then considers the possibility that the nasty looking rash covering the guys’ entire left cheek and part of his lips may very well be contagious. 

Yeah. That quiz is only worth 10 percent of his grade this semester. So not worth the risk. Besides, Stiles is reluctant to distract himself too much from Derek. At this point, the guy is looking pretty haggard; his hair a mess from sporadic stress-pulling, his face pale, his eyes barely open, and his good hand gripping the arm of his chair like he’s afraid an 8.5 earthquake’s about to hit. Stiles hates sitting there next to him doing absolutely nothing, and he’s had a couple of moments where his hand hovered inches over Derek’s hunched back, but he chickened out both times, too scared of being shoved off. 

He’s not sure when being rejected by Derek became a thing he cared about, and it makes his stomach feel a little loopy. If he’s lucky, it’s just the flu.

“Hale? Derek Hale?”

Stiles stares over in disbelief at the nurse calling Derek’s name. Fucking finally.

“Yeah,” Derek says, sounding like he just coughed up a bag of sawdust.

“If you’ll follow me, I can show you to an exam room.”

Derek nods and starts to push himself up from his chair, taking it slow. Stiles stands next to him, biting his lip, unsure of how to proceed. He doesn’t like how shaky Derek looks, how he nods but squeezes his eyes shut like it’s taking everything he’s got to stay vertical.

“Derek?” he says, as close to his friend as he can get without touching him, his hand doing that hovering thing again. And it’s a good thing, because right about then is when Derek passes out. And in an instant, Stiles goes from not touching to tackle-hugging, on his knees, cradling Derek’s head and injured arm with his own strained limbs as he breaks the fall of this man at least 30 pounds heavier than him.

The names _Allison, Aiden, Derek_ repeat in his head like a horror movie lullaby. And the terror is overwhelming. 

“No. Nononono,” he whispers brokenly. “This isn’t it, dude. Don’t do this, okay? Please….”

The next few minutes rush by like a freight train. The nurse that called Derek’s name, along with a couple other staff members, lay Derek on a gurney and ask Stiles a bunch of questions about his injuries. Stiles only knows of the one, and he feels like an idiot when Derek’s shirt is lifted up to reveal a pallet of bruises across his broad chest. When they ask him how it happened, the only thing Stiles can come up with is a skateboarding accident. He’s pretty sure they don’t buy it.

They wheel Derek away and leave Stiles in the dust, too stunned to move. He’s not sure how long he stands in the middle of the hallway like that. It’s late and he’s not really in anyone’s way. He doesn’t know what to do next.

Eventually, he’s snapped back into reality by a hand on his shoulder. 

“Hi, sweetie.” 

Melissa. Oh, thank god. Without any hesitation, Stiles pulls her into a hug. 

She seems surprised, but she runs with it, pats him on the back. “Hey, hey. He’s gonna be fine. He fainted, that’s all.”

Stiles pulls back, tries to evaluate her face and sees a hint of a smile there. “What?”

“He wasn’t getting enough oxygen. Looks like he cracked a few ribs and wasn’t breathing deep enough.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles blurts out, flailing with nervous energy. “That freaking moron!”

“Stiles,” Melissa scolds. “He’s in a lot of pain. Kinda gets hard to breath when you have broken ribs.”

Stiles takes a deep breath, combs his fingers through his hair. “Right. I know. I’m just…” an insensitive asshole? Yeah. That sounds about right.

“He’s getting some x-rays done and then they’ll probably need to put a cast on his arm. You should take a seat.”

“But can’t I…” he starts, but thinks better of it. Maybe he should give Derek some space. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Stiles grabs the nearest chair and Melissa pats him on the shoulder before she heads back down the hall.

“Oh, and Stiles? I had no idea Derek was into skateboarding,” she says with a wink. 

“Oh yeah. He’s a real renaissance man.”

 

He calls his dad to let him know where he is. He texts Scott and Malia, tells them to come by in the morning before school starts. He does a quick Google search for Death of a Salesman and starts reading. 

Not long after that, he falls asleep and has a weird dream about Derek selling vacuum cleaners to old ladies in curlers and polyester nightgowns. 

He wakes when he feels his knee being shook and hears Melissa calling his name.

She’s kneeling in front of him, holding a pink plastic clipboard to her chest. “Would you like to see him?”

He nods.

 

\---

 

Clearly Melissa’s definition of fine and his definition of fine are at odds. Because Derek is lying in a hospital bed with an oxygen mask over his face, his right arm propped up on a pile of pillows and covered in a thick white cast, an IV sticking out of his other arm, and a couple of bright blue ice packs settled on his bare, bruised abdomen. This isn’t fine. This isn’t even in the same zip-code as fine.

“Shit.”

Derek’s eyes crack open. He says something but it comes out too muffled to understand because of the mask, and he reaches to tug it off his face.

“Wait, I don’t think you’re supposed to…” Stiles says, moving hesitantly to stop him.

“Hey,” Derek breathes, adjusting one of the ice packs.

Stiles lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and feels some tension drain out of his face. “Hey, big guy.”

“You didn’t have to stay,” he mumbles, avoiding eye contact. So he’s still playing that game. After everything. Jesus Christ.

“Are you kidding me? You collapsed in my arms, dude. I thought you were… I thought….”

Derek stares blankly at the thin sheet covering his legs. “Well, I’m not.”

“I know. I just… had to see for myself, I guess.”

“Great.”

Well this got awkward quickly. Man, Derek’s a pro. The guy could make a pony feel unwanted at a 5 year old’s birthday party.

Well two can play at that game.

“You look like shit, d’you know that?”

“Funny. I feel like shit too.”

Okay, so that was poorly thought out. And now Stiles is having feels again. Obviously the poor bastard’s just posturing. 

So Stiles nods in understanding, because Derek’s got to be insanely freaked out. The guy’s never been in the hospital, never had a broken bone for more than 60 seconds, never been hooked up to an IV. He’s probably never even had a tongue depressor in his mouth, for god’s sake. Plus there’s the whole looming death thing to consider. He needs to cut the guy some slack.

He drags a chair over to the bed and sits, watches as Derek holds the oxygen mask over his face and takes a few breaths before sliding it under his chin again. It’s the tiniest window of vulnerability, but it feels significant somehow.

Stiles is reminded of finding Derek with Boyd’s body. Obviously, it was god-awful. But being close to Derek in that moment also felt strangely sacred. Like getting to glimpse some ancient artifact that might disintegrate at any moment. 

“How long they keeping you?” Stiles asks quietly.

“24 hours.”

“Sucks.”

Derek sighs. “I can’t fuckin’ wait to be home. Sick of this place.”

“Hey… maybe you should stay at Scott’s for a while after.”

“Not happening,” Derek says, rolling his eyes. Okay. He’s either genuinely home-sick or he’s just being an idiot.

“Fine,” Stiles concedes, “we’ll stay at your place.”

“Also no.”

Idiot it is then. Christ, doesn’t this guy realize his life is on the line here? Stiles hates this shit. Hates how everyone he knows (okay, mostly his dad and Derek) seems to be allergic to accepting people’s help. Hates how fucking hard it is to care about people. There’s no good reason it should be so fucking hard.

Stiles gets out of the chair and starts pacing the room, desperate to expend some of his frustration. “What the Hell! Don’t you think you could use some back up? Or are you forgetting a _banshee_ predicted your _death_ , Derek.”

Derek is finally looking at him. Well, more like trying to bore holes in Stiles’ head with his eyes. “I don’t care, _Stiles_ ,” he grits out, jaw clenched.

“Seriously?” Stiles doesn’t get it. What’s wrong with this guy? “You think your pig-headed defiance is gonna save you? That the predictions don’t apply to you? Look at yourself, man. It applies to you. It all fucking applies to you!”

“God, shut up Stiles,” Derek mumbles, shaking his head like Stiles has no clue what he’s talking about. Like Stiles is just some dumb kid. Behold, Derek’s superiority complex has deigned them with its presence. 

Asshole.

“You’re no more special than the rest of us, you know,” Stiles says, throwing words at Derek now like daggers. “Just because you survived the fire that killed your family doesn’t mean you get to survive everything.” 

Did he just say that? Oh, fuck. That’s way too harsh. Way too personal. But it’s also too late. Derek’s eyes have already welled up with tears. And just as fast, Stiles’ heart is welling up with guilt.

“Crap, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he says, sinking back into his chair. And he means it. God he means it. He’d do anything right now to wipe that pained look off Derek’s face, the way he’s staring at the ceiling, trying so hard not to blink and let those tears spill out onto his cheeks. Screw disintegrating ancient artifacts.

“It’s okay,” Derek says quietly. “I know I won’t survive.”

Wait. What? 

Is this really Derek Hale talking? The same Derek Hale who, over and over again, has found a reason to keep fighting, even when everything was fucked up beyond belief? Stiles can’t even wrap his head around it. How did this happen? What did he miss?

“No… Derek…”

“I can’t stop it,” he says, his voice cracking slightly. Like he’s already grieving his own death. Which is just… so… unacceptable.

“What, so you’re just giving up?” Stiles asks. “Jesus. You of all people…. You’re a fighter, man.”

“Everyone dies eventually, Stiles. Even fighters.” Derek tosses his ice packs onto the nightstand, his gaze lingering out the dark window.

“Hey. That’s bullshit, okay? You gotta at least try. Go down swingin’ and all that Dylan Thomas crap.”

Derek lets out a clipped laugh and rolls his eyes. “ _Rage, rage_ … think I’ve been raging long enough.”

“Well maybe you don’t have to rage, but can you at least try to believe?”

“Believe what?”

“That there’s some way to stop this. That… that you’ve got people who care about you, who’ll protect you and fight for you.” 

“Stiles… I don’t want any more people getting hurt because of me.”

“So, what? It only works one way? You’re allowed to put your ass on the line for us, but we can’t for you? You know, if we followed that seriously flawed logic, Kate would have been the one to bring you back from Mexico and she’d have finished you off as soon as she was done messing with your head.”

Derek squints at him. “But you’re lucky you weren’t all killed. How— how can I ask you to take that kind of risk again?”

Stiles slows down. He has to make him understand. “Dude. You don’t have to ask, okay?”

Derek’s eyes widen. He nods, and then he just… crumples. He presses his head back against his pillow, turning it away from Stiles. Tears stream down his nose and cheeks, along his jaw, into the corner of his lips. There’s no sobbing. He just breathes in fits and starts and struggles to swallow whatever rock is caught in his throat. 

Stiles wants to do something, wants to give Derek a massive bear hug, but it seems logistically impossible, what with the fresh cast on Derek’s arm and the busted ribs. So he just takes Derek’s good hand, grips it, runs his thumb back and forth over the hair on the top of Derek’s wrist.

“Shhh. Hey, hey. Shhhh. It’s okay,” Stiles whispers, worried about his friend’s still hitched breathing. With his free hand, he moves the oxygen mask gently onto Derek’s face again, then lingers for a minute around his temple, fingers finding their way into his soft black hair. Fuck it. He needs to do this.

“You gotta try to take deeper breaths, okay buddy?”

Derek nods. He doesn’t seem fazed by the sudden intimacy, but he also looks like he might be too wrecked to notice. 

“Or maybe just try to get some sleep?” Stiles adds, and Derek nods again and closes his eyes.

Stiles doesn’t move for a long time. He watches Derek closely. Listens to his breathing even out. Stares at the spot on the inside of his arm where the IV needle penetrates his unblemished skin. Keeps holding his hand. Tries to figure out what these feelings he’s having mean. Watches Derek some more and stops worrying about it, because it doesn’t matter. 

The only thing that matters anymore is keeping Derek safe.

 

-fin-


End file.
